


you could be young (but you're out of touch)

by Byacolate



Series: what's your rush [2]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Hermann is a secret cutie when he lets himself go, M/M, Multilingual Character, World Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 17:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermann has this habit of gazing wistfully at quaint European wedding chapels when he thinks Newt isn’t looking and pensively brushing a thumb over Newt’s left ring finger in the early hours of the morning when neither of them are really awake enough to analyze it. He can take a hint, okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	you could be young (but you're out of touch)

Hermann is neither as old nor as stuffy as Newton likes to make believe, so sometimes he pulls on his most casual striped, short sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans just to make Newt’s eyes bug out of his head. Granted, there is a limit to his gumption; he simply cannot see himself in a pair of the skinny jeans Newton loves so much. (Newt admittedly absolutely can if his emphatic cajoling is anything to go by.) Outside of the bedroom, Hermann never goes shirtless - not even in their private back garden on a hot summer day, to Newt’s never-ending amusement. Not that he’s one to talk; getting Newton Geiszler to wear any amount of clothing around the house is like pulling teeth.

 

They settle in Dresden, though ‘settle’ is a relative term for two people who have not lived in one steady location for longer than a handful of months at a time since adolescence. They probably won’t stay long, judging by their patterns of behavior thus far, but Hermann finds the porcelain industry quaint and delightful, and Newton maintains his amusement at the long-standing joke between them that Hermann doesn’t know a lick of Czech, even on the border.

 

They’ve taken a lecturing tour in Germany practically since the breach was closed, half as a way to reconnect with their roots and educate bright young minds, half because they’ve not yet reached a decision in their bickering as to whether they’ll settle for good in the states or somewhere in the English countryside.

 

Privately, Hermann thinks they may never truly take up roots. Both of their lives have always been easily maintained inside a single box, one suitcase apiece, for as long as they both remember. The only reason it remains an argument at all is for family’s sake. Newton has his father and his uncle in Massachusetts, and all of Hermann’s siblings conviene in Cornwall enough times per year that it is practically home base. At the risk of sounding cliche, in the end he doubts it will matter as long as he is with Newton. They keep up the argument because that’s what they do when they are both well aware that their schedules are full to bursting with travel for the next few years.

 

In fact, only two weeks after arriving in Dresden, Hermann hears the simultaneous beep and ping of both their email notifications from their phones as they stroll down a narrow street. Hermann reaches back into his pocket to fish the phone out and Newton places an absentminded hand at the small of his back as he does the same. “What do you think,” he muses, shaking his phone at Hermann, “they gonna keep us in Europe? Or are they gonna shake it up a bit?”

 

“If the current circuit is anything to go by,” Hermann says dryly, “After Munich will be Austria, perhaps.”

 

“Oh  _yes_ , fuckin’ stellar.” Smirking, Newton’s hand slips down a fraction of an inch. “If we’re sent anywhere the Alps are visible, I’ll blow you.”

 

“ _Newton_ ,” Hermann hisses, but Newt just lifts his eyebrows and stares pointedly at Hermann’s phone.

 

There’s no point to looking at his own, not really. They’re a package deal. Nobody’s tried to separate them in ten years, and even if they did, the very idea that they could is laughable. They were nigh inseparable  _before_ Newt woke every morning to see the delicate milky peek of a hipbone on show from where Hermann's night shirt tended to ride up when he stretched in his sleep. No jury would convict him for wanting to tuck Hermann against his side and keep him there forever now that he had.

 

“Ferrara,” Hermann says, rolling his r’s in a way that is not just indicative of his own speech patterns, but also lilts with a distinct Italian accent. Newt does turn his phone on then and makes a quick search on Google Maps.

 

They exchange a brief glance and as always, Newton looks far too cheeky for his own good. “Let’s be honest,” he starts once their phones are tucked away and they resume their walk toward the cafe nearest to the tiny rented house. “You’re wearing baby blue plaid, Hermann. I was gonna blow you anyway.”

 

* * *

 

“ _Italy!_ ” Newt’s cousin gasps into the phone. She sounds outraged, but in a delightedly envious sort of way. It’s exactly what Newt was going for. He lounges on the bed beside Hermann, lying in the opposite direction with his feet stretched out and propped up on the headboard. Hermann’s exceptionally appealing with his glasses on their grandpa chain sliding down a little too far on the bridge of his nose, tapping away at something on his laptop. Newt kind of just wants to take the computer away and pull Hermann on top of him so he can investigate the positively cavernous slope of his collar bone peeking out from the line of his soft, scoop neck grey jumper. But he knows Hermann is accepting the next three locations on their little educational jaunt around Europe and booking the flights now so they don’t have to worry about it in the future, and Newt’s not about that at all, son. So he’s just waiting it out with a long overdue phone call home from Munich and a gentle massage for Hermann’s calf where he’s pulled it to drape across his torso.

 

“Don’t blow a gasket. It’s all work, y’know. We fly right over the frickin’ Alps, dude, so I can’t get my yodel on or anything. As far as I know, it’s a pretty dinky town for a university. And then we’re off to Spain -”

 

“ _Spain!_ ” she squawks. Hermann peers witheringly at him over the rims of his glasses.

 

“Stop torturing your cousin, Newton.”

 

“Hermann says to rub it in your face that we get to stay in southern France all through May and June,” Newt says, maintaining eye contact until Hermann rolls his toward the ceiling. The noises he hears on the other line sound particularly dying manatee-ish and he tells her as much.

 

“ _I hate you so passionately_ ,” she grumbles, and it’s a statement that always has Newton grinning because he only actually receives it from his favorite people. It’s a little fucked up, but that’s how his loved ones like to show their affection. He gets it. “ _So when are you gonna stop making me want to cry with envy and come home for a visit? It’s been four years. And I want to meet Hermann._ ”

 

“You’ve met Hermann! Several times! I think you’ve actually seen  _way_ too much of him.” They Skype frequently enough, and once or twice she might have caught a glimpse of a little more of Hermann ' _than is appropriate for anyone I’m not sleeping with, Newton Geiszler, at least have the decency to take a perfunctory look around before you answer video calls!'_

 

For whatever reason, despite his accidental foray into mild exibitionism in her presence, Hermann quite liked Newt’s cousin.

 

_“You know what I mean, Doctor Dumbass.”_

 

That was probably why.

 

“Let her know we’re taking off for the summer to visit relatives,” Hermann instructs, nudging his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. The calf muscles under Newt’s hand flex when he squeezes Herman's leg fondly.

 

“Hermann says we might visit sometime in the next year if you stop whining about it. Also, he’s totally ripped and head over heels in love with me because I’m a goddamn rockstar, so if you keep calling me names he’s gonna kick your ass.”

 

“ _I like him best,_ ” she says just as Hermann snorts derisively, and Newton doesn’t know which one to be affronted by most.

 

It only takes twelve minutes more for Hermann to finish booking their flights and giving short term lets a look before he powers off his laptop and sets it aside, settling into his nest of pillows with a little sigh. Newt looks down his chest at him, rubbing slow circles around the delicate bones of his ankle.

 

The teenager huffs in his ear, finally wound down from her long tirade about travel and how come his giant brain lets him galavant all over the world when hers keeps her stuck in Boston honors programs and how is saving the world  _not_ the singular pinnacle of greatness in his life. “ _You’re so lucky_ ,” she accuses.

 

Hermann’s glasses dangle around his neck and he’s looking at Newt, maybe, but not entirely because he looks way too tired for any sort of proper focus. Eyelashes brush his pale cheeks with every slow, lazy blink, totally luxuriating in the comfy pile of pillows and not for the first time, Newton considers the probability that Hermann was a cat in a past life.

 

“Yeah,” he agrees, a little dopey. “I am.”

 

* * *

 

Never has Newton ever held marriage in particularly high regard. He himself was the result of a mutual affair, which probably explained it - conceived by his mother and father when they were both married to other people. He never knew his father’s ex wife which, hey, more power to her; it was a pretty dickish move of his dad to pull, fucking an opera singer on their honeymoon in Berlin and taking her in when she appeared at his doorstep six months later, fat with Newton himself. (In hindsight, though, the way his father describes the woman who gave birth to him - her dark hair, her fiery eyes, her passion and dedication to her craft, the fierceness and wit with which she bickered with Dad that made him fall ass over ankles in the space of one thickly barbed conversation - well. He couldn’t really blame him.)

 

Marriage has never been something he’s wanted. Not that he’s particularly opposed to it, just. He grew up wanting to be a biologist and a rockstar (and maybe a human-chameleon hybrid for one month when he was like ten okay shut up), but never has he aspired to be someone’s husband.

 

To be honest, he still doesn’t  _now_. Marriage is weird. Historically, it’s mostly just a legally binding contract steeped in sexism and creepy overtones of ownership, and if his parents are anything to go by, it can also be pretty fucking messy.

 

But the thing is, he has Hermann now. And even though he doesn’t really know how to feel about marriage as an institution, he knows and has known for years that Hermann is it. The One, in all caps. He knew  _before_ he’d zapped himself in Hermann’s mind the day they saved the world. There’s no one in the world that has ever set his mind on fire like every single sentence he speaks is holding a blow torch; there’s no one who has ever levelled him with a look that makes him equal parts furious and so fond he could die. He’s Newton’s forever life partner, and Hermann has this tendency of gazing wistfully at quaint European wedding chapels when he thinks Newt isn’t looking and pensively brushing a thumb over Newt’s left ring finger in the early hours of the morning when neither of them are really awake enough to analyze it. He can take a hint, okay?

 

His naturally dubious nature toward marriage aside, Newt thinks it probably wouldn’t be too bad. There are certain benefits to consider. Visitation rights and insurance policies notwithstanding, there’s the potential for great fun: e.g. when new acquaintances inevitably tell them they bicker like an old married couple, he could flash a wedding band and retort, “That’s probably because we are,” or something equally cool that Hermann would roll his eyes at and turn that cute shade of blotchy pink that just made Newt want to tease him all the more.

 

It’d probably be a bit more dignified, a bit more awesome, to introduce Hermann as his husband than it is to call him his boyfriend. People misunderstand when he says ‘partner’ (which is fair enough seeing as they shared lab space for a decade), and referring to Hermann as the light of his life or fire of his loins just makes Hermann hysterical with rage.

 

It’s not like he has anything to worry about, either. He’s known Hermann since he was seventeen, he’s been inside his head, he’s shared his bed and his last tablespoons of instant coffee and his personal space at the end of days. If there is anything in this world he is sure of, it’s that Hermann won’t hesitate to say yes. There would probably be little stars in his eyes as his brain kicked into high gear, because Hermann had the biggest wedding boner of anyone Newt has ever met, and the planning alone would be enough to keep him thrumming with pleasant energy for ages.

 

Newt likes it, so maybe he should put a ring on it.

 

All right. Marriage. Maybe he can dig it.

 

* * *

 

Ferrara is stunning. There’s an ancient looking building that might be a church covered in pink stripes and a gelateria nearly every other door down the main street, and like every other whimsical European village they’ve visited so far, Hermann just looks like he _fits_. It’s easier for him to wear glasses when he’s out and about the world, not stuck in a lab, and they look so perfect on his face - the frames just this side of too thick and too brown to be hipster, appropriately grandpa-esque, and paired with his thin cotton button-up shirt and his casual grey slacks, Newton has to tease him.

 

He watches Hermann lean against a stone lion to roll the sleeves up to his elbows, cane tucked between his legs, and moves in without a thought to undo the top two buttons of his shirt. “What on earth -”

 

“We’ve been walking around all afternoon,” Newton intercedes, batting Hermann’s hands away to roll the sleeves properly. “You’re probably hot as balls since you decided to forego, you know, clothes appropriate for Italy. Take a chill pill.”

 

“There are students around, Newton,” Hermann argues, but as he does not bat Newt’s hands away, it’s clear that the reprimand is superficial, which - of course it is. Newt’s been watching beads of sweat trickle down the long, pale column of his throat for the past half hour.

 

“Right. You should totally hide your scandalous collar bone away from the impressionable children lest they be driven  _mad_ with lust -”

 

“You jest,” Hermann sniffs, lifting a pretentious eyebrow, “but I’ve heard you reciting poetry to my clavicle on more than one occasion, so perhaps you should reflect on that.”

 

“Well yeah, you think I was kidding?” Newt smirks. The sun has set just low enough over the buildings that the light doesn’t hit them where they stand, but there’s a certain ambience to the little Italian town that makes Newt feel a little giddy. More than usual, in a weird, dumb love sort of way. It’s Hermann’s fault, obviously; he’s got a whole thing going with his face and his glasses and his stupid hair ruffling in the breeze and there’s just a smile on his lips like Hermann’s got the same weird bubbly feeling in his chest, and seriously.  _Seriously_ , Hermann’s smile. His mouth was  _made_ for smiling in a way that probably no one else’s is.

 

He’s definitely not biased. There are total strangers stopping and staring, he’s pretty sure. That’s just the effect Hermann’s smile has.

 

“Are you going to stand around looking at me all evening or are we going to find something to eat?” Hermann finally asks, his bright, toothy grin mellowing out into something softer, and  _god_ Newton is so fucked.

 

“You just want to show off your proficiency at Italian because you’re so shit at Czech,” Newt ribs, because that’s all he can do when his brain is swimming in oxytocin and the only alternative is dropping to his knees and taking Hermann’s cock into his mouth in the middle of the town square. Hermann scoffs and takes the cane from between his legs, pushing off the stone lion into Newt’s space.

 

“It is  _such_ a pity that the only fault of mine you seem to grasp is that I am not fluent on every European language, Doctor Geiszler.”

 

He probably thinks Newt will find the superficial act of intimidation and mockery annoying, but more than anything Newt’s just super turned on.

 

“Totally a pity,” Newt agrees, taking him by the hand and scooting closer himself until Hermann loses his balance and falls back against the lion with a petulant noise. There’s no way Newt is gonna spend the rest of the night horny and frustrated all by himself. “I can try to think of a few more faults if you want. Like how you still don’t know how to cut loose in public without me talking you through it. Or like how you don’t even notice when half of the kids you lecture have hearts in their eyes when you adjust your grandpa glasses.”

 

“Shut your godforsaken mouth this instant and get off me so we can eat,” Hermann huffs, and there’s color in his cheeks that Newton will never not be giddy to have put there.

 

“Sure thing, babe,” Newt teases. He untucks Hermann’s shirt with brief tugs, brushing his hands over the intimate warmth of his skinny waist before he pulls away.

 

Ferrara is stunning, and Hermann’s the one holding the stun gun.

 

* * *

 

Newt wines and dines Hermann like they’re still falling in love; like they haven’t been two kids writing letters about giant alien monsters and the mecha that fight them; like they haven’t been lab partners and scientific paper coauthors and totally drift compatible; like they haven’t been occupied with horrendously aggressive (but admittedly effective) flirtation for the guts of a decade. Like they haven’t been in love all this time.

 

The time they spend in all the places they go seems to alight them with different moods in stages. Germany is the very first stretch of land they stumble upon after departing from the Hong Kong Shatterdome for the last time. It’s where they make their first (if temporary) homes together. Newton likes to call it nesting, how they act, and privately Hermann is inclined to agree. They are nearly tentative around each other, testing out the boundaries of the turn their relationship has taken. It hadn’t lasted long, because at the end of the day they were Hermann Gottlieb and Newton Geiszler, but still it was… different. In Germany, the weight of the fate of the world slowly drifts off of their shoulders with the ease that Newton learns to slip into bed beside Hermann, to massage his thigh muscles when they are tense and achy, to recognize what faces he makes when he really wants Newt to touch him.

 

In Italy, Hermann feels neither different nor the same. He weighs more, he thinks, and of course he does - he’s been eating real food on a regular basis, not rations on base when and if he gets the time. His clothes are all tighter, so he know it must be so. There’s a little more color to his skin and Newt’s because they are no longer confined in the belly of a military base below sea level for stretches of weeks at a time, and the sun has done them both good. He loses track of time, doesn’t methodically, neurotically snip away at his own hair once every other week just because he needs something to do, just to feel some semblance of order in his life, like if he has control over his hair he has control over an imminent apocalypse. He wears a bit of color now and then because this isn’t life or death, it’s just  _life_ , and it’s not something he needs to mute just to keep everything orderly and professional. The world is full of color and light and sound and he wants to be a part of that. (Newt says he’s gorgeous like this, but, well. Newt said all sorts of things about his old haircut and his sweater vests and his bony hands, too, so he doesn’t take too much stock in that. Tries not to. Sometimes fails when he says it curled up and pressed against Hermann’s body in the soft light of morning, or over a podium when all the students have filed from the room and they’re left cleaning up after their lectures.)

 

In Valencia, Spain, the days are so hot that Hermann becomes accustomed to short sleeves for the first time since adolescence. The back of his neck is perpetually sunburnt, but to be fair the fault rests entirely on him; he’s taken to long leisurely strolls in the Albufera natural park near the resort the college has put them up in the three weeks they’ve agreed to teach there. Newton has the busiest schedule of the two of them, as his years in America made him the most proficient of the two at Spanish, and that’s just fine by Hermann. He was the one pulling most of their weight in Italy, after all. To Newton, the unique ecosystem of the park is fascinating, and Hermann is only slightly embarrassed to admit to himself that Newton Geiszler vibrating with excited energy in the Spanish sun is a thousand times more interesting than a giant lake could ever be. They spend their weekends drunk with rich red wine and full to bursting with the local cuisine, fumbling in darkened alcoves where the warmth from the late spring sun is still soaked into the mortar. They kiss a lot in Spain - an exceptional amount. Hermann doesn’t know if it’s the heat getting to them or the Spanish wine, but he certainly isn’t complaining. Newt’s been growing out his scruff, and it’s soft against Hermann’s hands but coarse enough against his throat that he has trouble stifling the little noises the sensation elicites. Spain makes him feel languid and fearless, careless enough to drop his cane to the ground with a clatter and wrap his arms around Newton’s shoulders. They build enough friction between them that Newton himself is the one to jerk away first, like he’s going to make a mess of himself right there where anyone can see if he lets himself. He’s frantic and newly sobered as he gathers Hermann and his cane and guides him off the streets of Valencia into a taxi, then into the resort, then into their bed. They like Spain.

 

(Hermann has to turn down requests by two sister universities in the Czech Republic because - well. He doesn’t even have to say more than that before Newton is on the floor, rolling with laughter.)

 

The University of Nice has accommodations for their long term stay located on the first floor of an on-campus apartment complex. It’s clear they’ve paid a great amount of consideration to Hermann’s leg, keeping him close enough to work to walk, with no flights of stairs to weather and a walk in shower like the one he’d had on base. Hermann has the perfect opportunity to tease Newton just as mercilessly for his limited recall of basic French from high school (“I was twelve, okay, and all I really needed to know was how to locate the restroom in the most pompous accent on the planet which is, hey, right up your alley.”) but he doesn’t.

 

In the days they have to settle in before their lectures are scheduled to begin, Hermann sits down with Newton and goes over the syllabus entirely in French. It’s always impressed him how quickly Newton absorbs and outputs information, retaining it like a sponge when he wants to. In Italy he’d used the small amount of practical Italian Hermann taught him in an exaggerated caricature of an accent, something straight out of an American mafia film, and it mortified Hermann to no end. But he takes to French like a duck to water, despite his insistence that it’s the most grating thing he’s ever heard.

 

Hermann could listen to language learning discs for hours and hours if Newton would let him, but he prefers a different method - Newton is an extrovert at heart, and believes in learning through immersion. The studies all show that it _is_ the most proficient method, and though Hermann would rather sit in the close quarters of their temporary home sounding out syllables to one another, he knows Newton is right. So they spend three days on the town, engaging patissiers and wait staff and kindly old women in the park, and though it drives Newton up the wall, Hermann only speaks French to him in the private of their home. (“You want me to what with your what? Hold on, Christ, let me find the dictionary…”)

 

Newton gets him back one day with a little utterance, something riddled with garbled grammatical errors about only being allowed to speak one language in bed and something about marriage vows that makes Hermann laugh and laugh.

 

* * *

 

The French undergrads love Hermann.  _God_ , do they ever. Of course they do - he’s got the whole long limbed, artistic bone structured, is-he-younger-than-he-dresses-or-older-than-he-looks kinda hipster thing going for him, and those ridiculous glasses he wears all the time now. And that  _smile_. It probably helps that he can actually speak to them almost as fluently as a native of Nice. Newt kind of hates the complexity and pomposity of French, but it suits Hermann perfectly. His tongue was made to move that way, curl around each syllable like an art form, and it’s pretty fucking easy to see why he’s attracted a devout audience all over Europe at this point.

 

It might be fairly warm in the middle of May on the southern border of France, but Hermann is stubborn about keeping up appearances in a professional setting, so he’s got a pair of grey slacks on and a thin, crisp white button-up and a predictably argyle sweater vest. By midday, Newt’s managed to convince him to roll up his sleeves and unbutton his shirt at the collar, as much for Newton’s benefit as Hermann’s, and he runs to fetch a couple bottles of water and something to eat while Hermann prepares himself for the students to return from lunch.

 

When he makes it back to the cavernous lecture hall with groceries from the campus convenience store weighing heavy in a sturdy paper bag under his arm, there are a couple of young ladies standing before Hermann’s desk, chattering amicably to him. Hermann is standing, leaning heavily on his good leg as he shuffles through papers and murmurs something back, too quiet and French for Newton to hear, but the women must find it hysterical because they burst into peals of laughter. The taller of the two (maybe of the three, she’s not even wearing heels and she quite possibly has a good inch on Hermann) has skin the color of brown sugar and the most amazing shock of dark, curly hair Newt has ever seen. Her voice is low and warm, and there’s color high on Hermann’s cheeks as he stutters something back. The shorter woman has a strip of blue in her jet black hair that suddenly reminds Newt of Mako, and he’s thrown back for a minute of nostalgia as she catches him standing there in the doorway. She waves, and then Hermann and the girl that dwarfs them all turn to stare at him. If possible, Hermann goes even redder.

 

“Newt - Docteur Geiszler,” Hermann croaks, and like a shot Newt kicks himself back into action. He pats the bag for emphasis.

 

“Hey, I got us some grub,” he says, actively choosing to use English because he’s a bit of a dick. Hermann frowns. He asks the two to pardon him, and they giggle again, looking between the two of them with bright eyes.

 

Neither of them speak English, but the petit girl is fluent in German, which is all kinds of awesome in Newt’s opinion. Hermann insists he speak French, though, so Newt only puts up the requisite amount of contrition. It doesn’t matter much, because by the time he’s given in and introduced himself properly, the two excuse themselves from the room with the widest smiles he’s ever seen. They shut the door to the lecture hall behind them, and Newt turns to Hermann with a smirk. “Hey, stud. Had to wait for me to leave the room to entertain your fans?”

 

“For God’s sake, Newton,” Hermann tsks. He likes to act the upright and dignified scholar, but he’s making grabby hands at Newt’s bag, so the facade is pretty much shot.

 

He downs half of his water in one go, and the bobbing of his throat is enough to give Newt pause. Not for long, though; he’s had, like, a thousand years to get used to putting up with random Hermann boners in favor of teasing him. “Seriously, I’m surprised only two of them showed up. I’m pretty sure I saw a dude doodling little hearts with your initials on his syllabus.”

 

“Your assertion in this conversation is in poor taste,” Hermann reminds him, delicately pulling out a few items from the sack. Newt lurches forward.

 

“Here, lemme - I got some stuff to take home for dinner, too, lunch is right -”

 

“Where on earth are we going to put this bag for the next three hours?” Hermann asks, narrowing his eyes.

 

“I love it when you put that big throbbing genius brain of yours to work, babe.” Hermann scowls at his sarcastic tone. “Under the desk, behind the podium, I don’t know. Anywhere!”

 

“That’s hardly professional, Newton,” Hermann asserts. Newt smirks.

 

“Oh, I'm sorry. What exactly were you whispering to those cute undergrads you’re being so _professional_ for while your boyfriend was out getting you lunch?”

 

The tips of Hermann’s ears go a little pink. “We were speaking about you, actually. They had all sorts of questions about the neurotic little man with a half-dozen PhDs and no penchant for French.” Newton snorts and holds out a sandwich for him, one that Hermann takes automatically. When he looks down at the label, his expression softens. “Cranberry and walnut, darling? You do spoil me.”

 

He’s probably trying to sound like he’s teasing Newt, but all that comes through is sincerity and really, it’s just too much to ask for Newt  _not_ to lean over and kiss his stupidly lovely face.

 

* * *

 

“This is inappropriate,” Hermann mumbles against his mouth. Newton gently sinks his teeth into Hermann’s bottom lip and tugs before he hops up on the desk and pulls Hermann into the cradle of his thighs by the belt loops.

 

“Nah,” he smirks. “ _This_ is inappropriate.”

 

* * *

 

Not all days are good days. Hermann never expected them to be. Some days, despite the care he takes with all the proper exercises and the alternately heating and cooling pads and the medication, his leg makes everything unbearable.

 

All other days he accepts help from strangers with relative grace, touched and a little bit embarrassed by their concern. When all is well, Hermann is happy enough to rest a hand on Newton’s shoulder for support, to accept the seats he leaves vacant for Hermann or let him clear space to make walking about the apartment a little easier. When his leg feels fine, he is more than grateful to the university for providing them with an apartment that has a walk in shower with a thin metal rail on the ground floor of the building.

 

It is only days when the pain flares up so badly even the heaviest painkillers do nothing to assuage the ache that he cannot stand it.

 

On these days, when he needs help the most, Hermann refuses it like a stubborn child. He grips his cane with malicious intent and limps to the bathroom, running on too little sleep to function properly regardless. He bumps his hip into the wall because it's there, and he only barely reigns in a snarl.

 

 

He hates the person he sees in the mirror, the wrinkles around his eyes, the unruly mop of hair, the ugly flat line of his mouth. He is an old, crippled, bitter man, and the pinnacle of his life is behind him. All he can even do anymore is recite the equations that once built enormous metal fighting machines to children. He’s on a goddamn bloody circuit around Europe to relive his singular glory day while people are still high on the fumes of an apocalypse averted. Give it another year, he thinks bitterly. What will he be then, when everyone has moved on from the quirky science duo that helped save the world?

 

Newton will go on, he thinks, scrubbing at his teeth with a brush and too much toothpaste. He spits when he is done and watches the mess of it swirl down the drain. Newton is only two years his junior, but compared to Hermann he looks so much younger. He’s got everything going for him: charisma, passion, youth, six doctorates, two fucking legs that _work_. What the hell is he still doing with an old man who can’t even keep his balance without a crutch?

 

He feels sick and grimy, so even though it’s only four in the morning, he hobbles into the shower. Clearly he’s not running on all cylinders because he forgets to step back and wait out his rage out of the direct line of the shower head. He jerks the tap on, what hits him is a frigid blast of ice water. He swears and jumps back, and it all happens very quickly from there. His bad leg crumples when all of Hermann’s weight lands upon it and he goes down with a cry, fumbling for the metal rail as he falls. A cacophony of falling bottles clatter around him and he sits there panting in pained silence as the water starts to go warm.

 

Newton bursts in a heartbeat later, looking wild with his hair awry and his eyes wide in nothing but a pair of boxers. “Oh god,” he breathes, falling to his knees on the edge of the shower beside Hermann. His hands reach out, but Hermann slaps them away.

 

“I’m fine, Newton,” he says through gritted teeth. Newt stares at him dumbly for 2.3 seconds before he sets his jaw and looks down to give his sprawled body a once-over.

 

“No, you’re totally not. That sounded pretty bad, dude.”

 

It _was_ bad. The sharp pain had brought tears to Hermann’s eyes. Or perhaps that was shame. “I can handle it, this is nothing, it was my own blasted fault. Go back to bed.”

 

Newton’s voice is bordering on shrill when he incredulously squawks, “Go back to - are you out of your mind? How could you possibly expect me to just waltz out of the bathroom when you’re here on the goddamn floor? What if you can’t get up? We need to get a fucking non-slip pad or something, this is totally unsafe -”

 

“I am not a  _child_ to be  _coddled_ -”

 

“This isn’t coddling, it’s basic safety, clearly this is a problem-”

 

“For once in your life, will you shut your incessant mouth for one  _bloody_ second?” Hermann spits, crumpled and ugly and soaking wet in the corner of the shower. A pang of regret instantly flutters through his stomach and latches on to his amalgamated self loathing.

 

 

Why can’t he be kinder. Why can’t he manage his emotions. Why does he allow a stupid injury that happened an entire war ago to drive him to cruelty.

 

Newton narrows his eyes and moves an inch closer, opening his mouth to deal a well deserved blow. Hermann welcomes it, penance for his callous nature, something old and familiar. He closes his eyes and tilts his chin up, more than ready.

 

“Marry me,” Newton says instead. It hits him harder than any blow.

 

* * *

 

He’s got Hermann towelled down, wrapped in a thin microfleece blanket and lying on his good side over the sofa with cup of sweet white coffee in his hands before he hears a quiet, “Of course.”

 

Normally, Newt would poke and prod and needle him into saying it louder, in more elaborate terms, possibly in German. He might demand an essay, backed with citation and evidence, on why he likes Newt enough to agree to marry him. Knowing himself, he’d probably end up throwing in a dumb little science pun while he’s at it, something crude and dorky to make Hermann roll his eyes and pretend he regrets ever accepting Newt’s proposal.

 

But he just found Hermann lying on the bathroom floor with red-rimmed eyes and a wobbling mouth, lashing out in anger to disguise whatever bad place he was in. Like Newt couldn’t see past that by now. So he doesn’t pester Hermann as he flips the last pancake from the griddle onto a plate and drizzles it with honey, picking a fork from the silverware drawer and his own mug of coffee from the countertop. He doesn’t say much at all until he has Hermann’s feet in his lap and he sees Hermann take an awkward stab at the stack of pancakes on the coffee table.

 

“Yeah?” he says conversationally into the dark, quiet morning. “You wanna get hitched? Make an honest man out of me? Be my ball and chain? Legally latch yourself to this fine specimen ‘til death do us part?”

 

“If you’ll have me,” Hermann murmurs, sounding stiff. That just won’t do.

 

Newt leans over as far as he can without jostling Hermann’s legs and pokes his nose. He grins like an idiot at the flush on Hermann’s face and the furrow in his brow.

 

 

“I’ll have you every way I can.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Specialist' by Interpol: _Honey bee, we should be through with this / Your packaged eyes, your vicious lips / You could be young, but you're out of touch / If this love's been done, then what's your rush?_
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://byacolate.tumblr.com/).


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